


Visions Of the Things To Be

by kelex



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 02:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12644058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: After the release of the Tetch Virus, in the aftermath, the city is Gotham Strong.  So much so that Oswald Cobblepot is throwing a Gotham Strong dinner to support the people of Gotham City.  The guest of honor?  The GCPD, in the form of Detective Jim Gordon.





	Visions Of the Things To Be

**Author's Note:**

> @granpappy-winchester, without whom this story would honestly not exist. Her tireless editing and brainstorming and cheerleading was a tremendous help to me, and I don't know what I'd have done without her.

Bullock nearly choked on his coffee. “Don't look now, but Penguin is just outside and coming your way.”

Across the desk, Jim Gordon rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I wish I'd shot the son of a bitch,” he groused, sweeping the papers back into the file folder. No reason to hand out sneak peeks. 

“Only sometimes?” Bullock got to his feet as Oswald climbed the few steps. 

“Detective Bullock, hello.” Oswald leaned on his umbrella as Harvey walked past. 

“Penguin.” Harvey barely acknowledged the greeting as he headed to the captain's office, slamming the door behind him. 

“Such a charming man, your partner. James.”

“Yeah, Harvey's a peach. Oswald, what do you want?”

“I'm concerned about my friend. I heard you were affected by the virus; I sent flowers,” Oswald added. 

Jim scowled. “I got ‘em. They were great, I'm fine. Goodbye.” Jim hoped that would be enough to seal the deal. 

It certainly was not. “Well, I'm very pleased to hear you're doing well.” That much was sincere. “In fact, since you're obviously feeling up to snuff, I would like to invite you to join us for dinner. You see, I and some of the other pillars of Gotham are having an informal dinner for anyone affected by the virus. A goodwill gesture to help reunite those poor people with the city that holds no grudges.”

Jim barely restrained the eye roll. “No,” was the succinct reply. 

A brief expression of anger flickered across Oswald's features, but it quickly disappeared. “It won't be the same without you,” he wheedled. “Surely you can see that Gotham needs to unite, and who better to be the face of that effort than you, James Gordon, hero of the Gotham City Police Department?”

The question was rhetorical, and so Jim ignored it. In fact, he got up ignored Oswald altogether, saying only, “I said no.”

“You will be sorely missed,” Oswald called out as Jim knocked on Harvey's office door. 

\---

“Excuse me a minute; come in!” Harvey waved at Jim, the universal sign of welcome from one on the phone. “Yes sir, I understand that, but I don't think I can order my guys around during their off-duty hours,” he finished. 

Jim sat down across from Harvey, balancing folders on his knee. He said nothing, waiting patiently for his partner to get off the phone. From the side of the conversation he could hear, he was guessing it was the commissioner.

“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure and tell them it comes from your office, sir. And that it’s not an order but a suggestion you wish they’d all seriously consider. Yes, sir. Yes. Thank you, Commissioner, goodbye.” Harvey considered throwing the phone across the room, decided against it, and looked at Jim instead. “Let me guess. Penguin wants you to go to this damn Gotham Strong dinner.”

“Yeah, actually. How’d you know?” Jim handed the files over. “The Pendleton file, the Murray interrogation, and my resignation,” he joked.

“You can’t quit before I do,” Harvey pointed out. He shoved the files into the metal rack on his desk and pulled out his flask. “That was the Commissioner on the phone. He wanted me to order all of the cops that had the virus to go to this thing. I said I couldn’t order them around off-duty, so he said to encourage it as much as possible.” Clasping his hands in prayer, he pointed his steepled fingers at Jim. “You have to go, Jim, please. For me. I can get the higher-ups off my ass if I can tell them the famous Detective Gordon is going.”

“I already told Penguin no, several times,” Jim pointed out. 

“You can call him back. Or better yet, go to his club. He likes you, Jim, God only knows why. Besides, you can keep an eye on him. You and I both know he’s shady as hell, and whatever this dinner party is about, it’s sure as hell not for the good of Gotham City. You go, you can find out what the scam is, and maybe it’s something we can bust him with...”

Jim let the rude snort sound in the privacy of the captain’s office. “Harv, come on. You know he’s gonna be protected, and I don’t mean bodyguards. If the Commissioner is shilling for this…” But the protest was only token; Harvey had convinced him with the idea of Penguin’s shady dealings. 

“Is that a yes I heard trailing off there?” Harvey asked hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s a yes. You owe me, Bullock.” Jim got back to his feet, hoping to catch Penguin before he left. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m calling this in as one of the thousand favors you owe me. Go, catch that waddling bird while I make the Commissioner’s day.” Harvey picked the phone back up as Jim was leaving his office. “Get me the Commissioner’s office.”

\---

“Oswald!” Jim caught Penguin on the front steps. 

“Jim! Dare I hope this means a change of heart?” Oswald stepped down the last few steps, more comfortable and secure on flat pavement as he waited for Jim to catch up to him. 

“Yeah, it’s a change of heart. I’ll be there.” 

Reaching into his suit’s inner pocket, Oswald withdrew an invitation. “Saturday, 7 PM, at the Royale’s ballroom,” he said, holding the invitation out to Jim. “Shall I send a car for you?”

Jim took it like it were the corpse of a dead rat. “No, I think I can find my way.” The invitation was hand-calligraphed, with his name in ostentatious print. He wondered if Penguin had done it himself. Green and purple ribbons decorated the card and streamed over the side, and he idly flipped it over. 

_Saturday the 17th, 7 PM Gotham Royale Ballroom. Dinner will be served at 8, and will conclude with dessert from Le Amuse Bouche, Gotham’s finest pâtisserie._

Oswald watched with glee as Jim gave the invitation such a studious once-over. With Butch and Gabe gone, and Ed’s betrayal, Jim Gordon was Oswald’s last true friend, and he was nearly giddy with Jim’s agreement to come. “I will be looking forward to seeing you there, my friend.” He grabbed Jim’s hand and shook it with a flourish, then gave him a hug. “Thank you, Jim. You’ve been a true friend.” 

Jim awkwardly returned the one-armed hug, patting Oswald on the shoulder. He hadn’t really been that great a friend, although there had been a few times that had _almost_ qualified. “See you soon, Oswald.”

\---

The Gotham Royale was the second-largest and definitely the most luxurious hotel in Gotham City. The Royal had tried to block the Royale from using the name, but enough money had changed hands to allow the Royale to come in. The hotel had a small casino for their guests--nothing fancy. A roulette wheel, a craps table, a blackjack table, a short row of slot machines, and a poker game that ran from dusk Friday night to sunrise Sunday morning. High rollers only, $5,000 entry fee, winner takes all. 

The ballroom, several conference rooms, and a meeting hall were all located behind the casino, but were also accessible through a second revolving door to the left of the casino entrance. It was through that revolving door that Jim entered.

He knew the scam as soon as he walked in. At both entrances, there were booths set up, manned by Penguin’s thugs. Each booth touted **TETCH VIRUS TEST KITS, $35 FOR INSTANT RESULTS** and had lines nearly to the door. In smaller print, a sign off to the side read, **Still worried? Family and friends suspicious? The Tetch Virus Test Kit can clear you in moments! A prick of the finger, a few drops of blood, and a verified clean test result. Start rebuilding trust today!**

Ridiculous, ridiculous. 99% of infected Gothamites had already had the antidote administered to them and had their blood tested and cleared by one of Gotham’s hospitals. Of course, the hospitals didn’t offer shiny certificates you could frame and hang on your wall to prove that you were no longer infected. 

Jim shook his head as a test was offered to him. “No, thank you, I’m fine.” He nearly recoiled as a certificate was offered to him. “No, really.”

“But Mr. Penguin asked us to make sure that you had one of the certificates, so that people would know they worked,” the little man said, and kept thrusting the rolled-up paper at Jim’s midsection. Heaving a huge sigh, Jim took the scroll and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Detective! This way, please, Penguin has a seat for you at his table.” 

Of course he did. Jim just shook his head and resigned himself to the indignity of the entire night as he followed the man not to the plethora of tables on the floor, but to the main long table on the stage. Penguin was already seated, and greeted Jim with a smile. “Jim, my old friend! Please, come, have a seat by me!” He gestured airily to the seat beside him. “I’m not certain, have you met Ms. Pepper?” 

“I have…” he let the sentence trail off as he caught sight of Ivy Pepper. “Not,” he concluded. There was a bit of resemblance, of course, but the Ivy he’d met was a small child, a contemporary of Selina’s. Not an adult woman. “Ms. Pepper.”

“Ivy, please, and yes, Detective, we’ve met.” Her eyes flashed angrily. “You shot my father.”

Oswald stood up quickly. “Now, Ivy, Jim’s a friend. Those things are all in the past now.” 

“Maybe.” She shook Jim’s hand briefly and then let it go. “I’m gonna go and see how they’re doing with the test kits.” 

Oswald just watched, shaking his head. “My young friend there is a bit impetuous. A side effect, I’m sure, of her rapid-onset adulthood. I’m told that one of the Indian Hill monsters did that to her, but she got away before they could finish up and kill her.” Oswald patted Jim on the knee. “Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe. She won’t come after you.” 

“I didn’t think she would.” Jim just bypassed the idea that the little girl he’d met had turned into this woman and changed the topic to something else. “This is just a grab for money,” he pointed out. Harvey had been right to call it shady; a scam would be equally accurate.

“Nonsense, it’s a public service! So many people have done things under the influence of the virus. And I’m not just referring to the criminal behavior, which you and your department have done a stunning job in redressing. I’m referring to the personal slights, the wrongs that a husband did to a wife, a child to a parent, a sister to a brother. The things that cannot so easily be undone, undue influence or not. But, if you have a certificate, proof that what happened was not your fault, and that you are clean and can once again be trusted, well.” A shrug. “It benefits all of us. Everyone else is benefited by my generosity, and, well. I gain a great deal of public gratitude.’

“And money.” Jim’s cynicism realized the brilliancy behind Oswald’s plan, and understood immediately his place in it. “You, my friend…” He just let the sentence trail off, and accepted the drink brought to him by one of the waiters.

“You’re going to need that,” Oswald said with a soft grin. “I think you’re going to find a bit of my speech disturbing. I’m sorry, but I thought you should be warned in advance.” 

A slow trickle of people were sliding into the room, proudly displaying certificates to those already seated. A brunette in a slinky black dress got up to embrace a man in a suit; two blonde children sitting beside the man were clapping loudly. A mohawk-wearing boy proudly displayed his certificate to a table of fellow punks, who hooted and clapped him on the back. A woman brought a certificate back to an elderly woman, possibly a mother. And behind her was an elderly woman, clutching the certificate to her chest and sitting alone against the wall. 

Gordon leaned over. “How much you charging to get in here, Penguin?”

“Charge admission to a charity dinner? I would _never._ ” Oswald smirked. 

“Uh huh.” Jim’s tone was full of his disbelief. “So how much?” he asked again.

“Our profit margin is coming strictly from the blood tests. It costs us ten dollars per test to run it, and we charge thirty-five for processing and certificate printing. That’s twenty-five for us, and multiply that by the forty thousand or so people who’ll come in tonight or find us after the fact, that’s just about one million dollars. And no one person has to bear the brunt of that. Every single person out there is paying cheap for something that is completely priceless--peace of mind,” he finished. 

“You’re ripping these people off,” Jim said softly. “What you’re charging thirty five dollars for, these people already know for nothing.” 

“On the contrary,” Oswald countered. “For nothing, that’s exactly what the good people of Gotham have to show--nothing. Except perhaps a page of laboratory printouts that mean nothing to the average person. What I--we--are offering tonight is an easily read, easily shared, and tangible proof that they are, once again, themselves. That anything said while under the influence of the virus was exactly that--under the influence.”

Jim gave up after that. Pick your battles, Captain Essen had once told him, and this was not one that he could win. So he let it go. Instead he sat back, sipped at a drink that never seemed to empty, and shook the occasional hand as someone took a seat at the head table beside Penguin or himself. 

“Oswald, when are we going to see the new club open? That centerpiece looks amazing; I can’t wait to see it!” That was from Laura Kiskey, press agent for one of the Gotham newspapers. 

“Patience, patience. It’s still a few months away from being ready! Renovations, you know. They seem to take forever, especially when you want them to go quickly!” Penguin laughed it off. “I’ll make sure you’re on the guest list for the special grand opening!” 

“Centerpiece, huh? That’s what you’re calling it?” Jim had seen the photos and though Penguin slyly hinted at first it was just a decoration, word had gotten around quickly enough. That was the real thing frozen in there--Edward Nygma, alive but frozen totally solid. Jim had seen Victor Fries’ work enough to know exactly what was going on, but this was not the venue to pursue it. Besides, he’d already tried that once.

_Jim, Jim, Jim. There’s nothing to pursue! Poor Ed was sick. Delusional, even. He was taking experimental drugs, and he was hallucinating. He really had no other option than to be frozen. I had the connections, and Ed was my chief of staff, at one time, so I made the appropriate arrangements for a dear old friend,_ was the statement Oswald had given. With Nygma on ice, there was no real way to verify if Penguin was telling the truth, and so they’d had to let it go.

However, if Nygma ever managed to break out of the ice, Jim had more than a few questions for him. Like if he’d gone into the ice voluntarily, first of all. 

While Jim had been woolgathering, the room had filled, and Oswald stood, tapping a spoon against his glass for attention. “Thank you all for coming!” boomed over the microphone, and it cut through the whispered low-level chatter happening on the floor. “We, the representatives of Gotham, are pleased to have all of you here tonight!” A pause for polite applause. “This recent epidemic and the rush to cure it shows that our city is once again strong, beautiful, and in love with all it’s people. We are all Gotham Strong!” 

Another spate of cheering for that slogan, and Jim was thoroughly tired of hearing it. _Gotham Strong!_ had cropped up a few weeks into the recovery, and was being plastered on every lamp post, derelict door, park bench, and billboard in the city. The police department, the fire department, and all of the first responders had been given green and purple rubber bracelets proclaiming **I AM GOTHAM STRONG!**

Jim was one of the few officers to refuse to wear the damn things. 

After the cheering died down, Oswald continued. “Our strength is something that we have come together to celebrate tonight, but we are here for another reason as well. Strength requires support, and we, the people of Gotham City, need to regain the support of our families, our friends, all the loved ones who were harmed or who did harm to us during the recent outbreak. Trust, once broken, is a hard bond to reforge again. Betrayal is a high wall that must be climbed in order to break it down, and faith in your fellow man is something that must be lost before it can be re-discovered, stronger than ever! These Gotham Strong Certificates you have before you are the first step in that long process. These certificates prove that not only are you once again the person you were before, but that it was _not_ you who harmed your loved ones. It was the virus, the red devil in the smoke, that turned the great citizens of this city into beasts. And it was through the efforts of the Gotham City Police Department, working hand in hand with hospitals and research laboratories around the city, that both a test and a cure was found.” 

More scattered applause, this time more for Oswald than for his words. 

“Look to the head table here, and no further, to see that Gotham City practices what it preaches.” The spotlight that had been on Oswald swung over to blind Jim. “James Gordon, one of Gotham’s favorite sons and premiere detective at the GCPD, was felled by this virus. Yet, even as he fought the infection raging inside of him, he helped the police department regain control of the antidote. Unfortunately, during the altercation, even Detective Gordon did unspeakable things. It was by his hand that our own successful businesswoman, Gotham’s favorite daughter, and my mentor Fish Mooney, was stabbed, and killed. She died in my arms.” A moment of silence, and Jim could have sworn he saw a tear. “But see that Jim Gordon is here tonight, with all of us, reaching out to every single person in Gotham City to ask for forgiveness. Jim… I would like to tell you here, now, in front of everyone, that I forgive you.”

Overwhelming applause then, and several catcalls from the audience were urging Jim to rise up. Struggling with the issue of his eyes rolling right out of his head, Gordon got up from the table, spotlight swinging to follow him, and walked to the podium where Oswald was standing. As soon as he got close enough, Oswald engulfed Jim in a hug, and the roof nearly flew off the building from the power of the ovation. “You see, Jim? If they can see me forgiving you? Then they can forgive themselves and each other.” 

Jim gripped Oswald’s arm tightly. “Don’t ever blindside me like that again, Penguin,” he growled lowly, out of the microphone’s reach. He sat back down, and thankfully, the spotlight lingered again on Oswald. 

“Our dear friend is a bit shy.” Laughter rippled in the crowd. “But he did ask me to relay to all of you his hopes that seeing him forgiven can help to jumpstart the healing for all of us. Thank you.” 

As Oswald sat down, waiters started circulating, serving drinks and plates of food. On the stage, the lectern and microphone was moved away, and a tall stand mike replaced it, along with a redhead lounge singer that would’ve put Jessica Rabbit to shame. She started crooning, and the high table on the stage was served their dinners. 

“I thought you might be a meat and potatoes man,” Oswald said, leaning over into Jim’s personal space. The cover was removed from the plate to reveal a choice cut of prime rib, a baked potato, some grilled vegetables still on the skewer, laid over a bed of fresh white rice. “Given the contents of the speech, I thought serving you fish might have been in bad taste.”

Oswald’s own plate held a grilled tuna steak, with the same vegetable skewers and rice, but no potato to be seen. 

“Remind me after this dinner to kill you,” Jim growled, taking the knife in hand to start carving his steak. The meat was grilled to a perfect medium rare, the potato was soft and fluffy inside a crispy salted skin, and the vegetables were slightly crunchy but still tasted of the grill and the seasonings. 

It was a great dinner, and Jim resented every bite of it. 

“I did warn you,” Oswald pointed out, though he had only warned that Jim might find the speech uncomfortable. Easy chatter flowed on the floor throughout dinner, and Oswald leaned over to Jim again. “Do you see why I needed you here? How Gotham needed you here? They needed to see someone like you being forgiven. You started the boulder rolling downhill, my friend. Gotham will heal because of you.”

“Shut up, Oswald.” Jim had already done the mandatory sessions with the GCPD shrink over Mooney’s death, and had no intention of letting Cobblepot shrink him further. 

Oswald let his hand drop to Jim’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “As you wish.” 

Jim looked down at Oswald’s hand, still on his knee, and decided not to mention it. Yet. After a few moments too long, it was withdrawn while Oswald used his napkin, and returned when he was done wiping his mouth. “Uh, Oswald?”

“Yes?” 

Jim looked down, and Oswald followed his gaze. “Oh, terribly sorry. Force of habit, you know.” He moved his hand back, and smiled at Jim. “So used to my mother doing that, I sometimes do it without thinking.”

“No problem.” Jim could still feel the heat of Oswald’s hand through the wool of his trousers, and gave a shake of his head as he straightened his leg out. 

He was still irrationally pissed at the catering as he finished. An event like this was supposed to have crappy food, not a five-star menu. He'd enjoyed every bite, but he consoled himself that it was totally against his will. 

Dessert followed the meal, and Jim was irked to see one of the choices was tarte tatin, made with pears and served warm with vanilla ice cream. Madeleines and individual creme brulees rounded out the dessert offerings, and Jim claimed his tarte tatin with carefully disguised eagerness. Barbara had taught him to like it, and he’d introduced Lee to it. It was something he didn’t treat himself to often, but _Le Amuse Bouche_ made the best tatin he’d ever had. Jim was determined to not enjoy a bite, but that went by the wayside with the first taste. 

Oswald chose the same as Jim, watching with delight as Gordon dove into the delicious dessert with more gusto than he’d shown for the entire meal. Apparently Barbara Kean hadn’t been lying all those months ago when she’d mentioned Jim’s fondness for the treat. Oswald had made certain to include it in the menu for that very reason. It was paying off, though, and Oswald was actually enjoying watching Jim enjoy the dessert than the dessert itself. 

Glaring down at his own plate, Oswald quickly pushed down the amusement and enjoyment. He scowled at his distorted reflection in the silverware, mentally castigating himself for slipping. If Edward had taught him anything, it was that camaraderie was an illusion, closeness was a game, friendship a lie and love a crumbling gulf that separated a man from his good sense. He had gone down that road with Edward Nygma, and had gotten nothing but pain and betrayal. He would not allow it to happen with James Gordon. 

The waiters were circulating their dessert carts through the tables on the floor, and the redhead at the microphone was finishing her last song. Oswald suddenly wanted everyone gone, the room empty and quiet, so that he could indulge his temper alone. But he pushed the anger down as well, clapping with everyone else when the singer finished and bowed to the audience. Oswald moved to the microphone, still applauding. “Amelia Richards, everyone! Wasn’t she lovely?” 

A standing ovation brought the singer out for one more bow and an encore performance, choosing _Hallelujah_ and stretching the song into nearly ten minutes. 

Once the food had arrived, Jim had switched to water, so when the encore was over, he went to the bar for one last drink. Oswald appeared beside him after a moment, and a red wine mixer was pressed into both their hands. Some of the attendees were filtering out, others were standing in small knots chatting here and there. 

“Well, Jim, did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

The answer was both predictable and gruff. “No.”

Oswald grinned at Jim's scowl. “I think your empty plates might say otherwise,” he pointed out as stewards started clearing the high table first. 

“I ate. Doesn't mean I enjoyed it.”

A heaved sigh. “Would it kill you to admit that maybe this wasn't the torturous evening you expected?”

Jim finished his drink before answering. “Yes.”

Oswald actually laughed at that, and Jim gave a rueful little grin. A conspiratorial smile that admitted Jim was playing along with the bully facade. A moment later, his chest caught about halfway down his sternum. A fluttering was beginning, and Oswald ruthlessly crushed it. 

That kind of thing had died with Edward, and he was not ever going to let it resurrect; he was _not_ going to be that pitiful creature that had chased Ed ever again. 

Slowly, Oswald realized that someone was tugging his elbow. The little nervous guy from before had been replaced by a nervous young woman with a nametag that read “Susan.” “Mr. Cobblepot, some of the people are asking for you as they’re leaving. Could you and Mr.--Detective Gordon come with me and shake some hands on the way out?”

“Of course we can!” Oswald’s cheer was forced as he downed the drink, and then finished Jim’s refill before he’d had more than a sip. “Come on, Jim, let’s go shake a few hands.”

Jim looked longingly at the empty glass, but heaved a sigh as he followed Oswald. His distinctive walk cut a path easy to follow, and soon enough, they were standing pressed together by the doorway as the crush of people surged up to see them. 

At one point, an eager young man bowled into Oswald, reaching out to shake his hand and knocking him backwards. Oswald's cane clattered to the floor and Jim reached out and caught him, steadying him with an arm around his shoulders. “Hell with this,” he muttered, and raised his voice. “LISTEN UP!” he shouted in his official GCPD voice. “We’re getting trampled up here, so you need to get into a single file line, now!”

Several of Oswald’s thugs were scurrying to do Jim’s bellowed bidding, helping shape the mass of people into something approaching a line. Jim kept his arm around Oswald’s shoulder, hand gripping his arm securely. “You okay?” Jim asked, dropping his voice back to a whisper as they went back to shaking hands. 

“Yes, I’m quite fine.” Jim had surprising strength in his arm, able to catch most of Oswald’s weight as he’d tipped back and held him up straight. His knee was turned uncomfortably, his foot even more so, and he was unable to get a secure footing. So he leaned on Jim, shaking hands and murmuring forgiving words as faceless people streamed past. Jim was solid, and strong, and did not seem to notice or mind that Oswald was propped against him. 

Jim noticed, but he wasn’t bothered by it. It wouldn't be for long, and since the silver-headed cane was still on the floor, Jim realized he was the only option. So he kept Oswald tucked protectively against his side, shaking hands while Oswald spoke to the people streaming past. 

It had been nearly an hour, and the line was finally trickling to an end. To his embarrassment, Oswald's knee gave way entirely. To keep himself upright, he draped an arm around Jim's back. 

Jim moved forward when he felt Oswald start to fall, and slipped his own leg behind Oswald's, giving the exhausted leg some extra support. 

The warmth of Jim's body pressed against him made Oswald flush red. He craved the contact with other people, and since Edward, he'd been nearly starved for warmth. The ice was unforgiving and numbingly cold when he tried to touch Ed's hands. 

The last person had just left, and Jim used his foot to nudge the fallen cane into his reach. Retrieval was a quick hop on one leg, and he held it out to Oswald. “Sit.”

Gratefully, Oswald took the cane and limped to the closest table. Much of the pain was gone as he'd gotten out of the uncomfortable position, but it was still a delight to take a load off. As soon as Oswald was down, Jim was moving. 

Up at the bar, the bartender was beginning clean up. “Got anything stronger than red wine?” Jim asked, almost desperate for the first time that evening. 

The bartender laughed gently. “Mr. Cobblepot said you'd ask. He had me bring a bottle of the good stuff in just in case.” 

Jim scowled. He didn't particularly want to play along with Oswald, and he was considering a glass of water. Then he remembered that green drink Barbara had given him once as a joke. “Girl Scout cookie, please.”

The bartender raised his eyebrows but said nothing, setting up a tall shot glass and started mixing vodka, Irish creme, creme de menthe, and chocolate liqueur. “Girl Scout cookie.”

Jim took the frilly drink and sipped it slowly. It was more disgusting than he'd remembered, but he drank it anyway, slamming the empty glass down to help push the shot down. 

Watching with amusement, the bartender set out a squat glass and poured it full. “Whiskey, neat.”

“Thank you.” Jim downed the drink almost as quickly as it had been poured, and took his time with the refill. Leaning against the bar, he watched Oswald sitting alone at the empty table, surrounded by empty chairs. He looked small, vulnerable, almost sad, and Jim felt the familiar swell of grudging affection he always felt for Oswald. “Pour two this time,” Jim ordered, and carried the glasses to Oswald's table. “Last call. Bartender’s packing up.”

“Thank you, Jim, for your kindness.” A quiet pause. “Most people in your position would have left me to the tender mercy of the trampling crowd and gotten away, especially when you didn't want to be here in the first place.” Oswald accepted the drink gratefully. 

Jim supposed there was a question in there, though he wasn’t sure what it was. “Well, you're welcome.” There was an uncomfortable silence, during which Jim was feeling all too defensive of Oswald. “Where’s your driver?”

“Pulling around any moment now,” Oswald answered, swallowing the drink in a hard gulp. “One of the benefits of being me is curbside service. May I offer you a ride home, Jim? In gratitude for all your help this evening.”

Jim gave a gentle shake of his head. “No, thanks. Got a taxi waiting.” Exaggeration, of course, but he was relatively certain he could flag one down within ten minutes or so.

“Of course.” Of course Jim rejected the offer, just like Jim had rejected everything else that evening. “Then I look forward to seeing you again, soon.” 

“Sure.” Jim made sure to wait around long enough to see Oswald’s chauffeur come into the ballroom and escort him out. As soon as Oswald was gone, Jim followed, hailing one of the taxis outside the hotel. 

\---

Jim was nowhere near drunk enough, but the drinks he’d had at the dinner had at least put him on the road to tipsy. If he had to guess, he’d probably blow a .03 or so; a little tipsy, probably impaired, but not drunk. He had his head down, looking at his feet and jangling his keys, sorting until he found the one to his door. 

“Hello, Jim.” Jim pulled up short, looking up at his door. Oswald was leaning up against it, shoulder and cane taking his weight as he looked annoyed. “Your cab driver should be shot for taking the long way around.”

“What are you doing here?” Jim jangled his keys impatiently. 

“Jim, we need to talk.” Oswald crossed his arms over his chest, leaning the cane against the door.

“No.” Shaking out his door key, Jim moved in close, towering over Oswald. When Oswald didn’t move, Jim didn’t either, just reaching around to slide the key into the lock. As he leaned forward to turn it, his weight was caught by Oswald’s body, pinning the other man between Jim’s bulk and the door. 

Oswald’s breath caught in his chest, feeling Jim pressing so tightly against him. He could feel a flushing break out over his skin, and he exhaled too quickly, causing the hair at Jim’s temple to ruffle slightly. The click of the door lock broke the moment, and Jim stepped back to let Oswald regain his balance before he stepped around him and into the room. 

Oswald’s query of, “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” was predictably ignored, with Jim slinging his keys down on the table by the door and going into the kitchen. So he came in uninvited. “You’re being quite rude, you know. You should always invite visitors into your… hovel.” Oswald looked around at the living conditions. “Obviously the maid hasn’t been.”

“Drink?” was Jim’s only answer to that, holding one of his clean glasses out to Oswald, filled with whiskey. “Not as good as the stuff you had at the dinner, but it’ll do.”

 

“At least you aren’t completely uncivilized.” Oswald took the drink and sat down on what looked like a sofa, but he wasn’t completely sure. 

“Fuck you, Oswald.” Jim came around the counter, bottle in one hand and glass in the other. “Refill?”

“Honestly, Jim. It’s no wonder people don’t like you.” Oswald took a sip of the drink and nearly choked on the rotgut. “No, thank you, I think that’s quite enough.”

“Suit yourself.” Jim dropped down into the chair behind his desk, putting about half the room between himself and Oswald. “So?”

“So what?” Oswald parroted back. “I felt it necessary to apologize for my behavior at the dinner tonight. I should have warned you beforehand of what I was going to bring up in my speech, and--”

“Shut up.” Jim thumped the bottle down on his desk. “You don’t mean that, so cut the crap and tell me why you’re here. Or leave.”

Oswald thumped the tip of his cane on Jim’s floor, trying to decide what to say, and if he were actually going to say what he had convinced himself in the back of the limo he was going to say. “James, I am certain that you realize there are certain things that a person in my position does, or does not, allow himself, as the situation presents. There have been things in my past that I am not proud of, and they have, in their way, caused certain… mindsets.”

“Mmm.” Jim finished the glass, but didn’t pour another drink. “Get to the point.”

“Experience has shown me that it is not always a good idea to indulge certain things,” Oswald answered. “And though I’ve come with full intent in discussing these things, I find it difficult to speak plainly.” 

“No shit.”

“Yes, well.” Oswald’s cane thumped the floor again. “I went down a certain path with a person in the past, and needless to say, it did not end well. In fact, it ended the way you would probably expect, with the worst possible outcome. In the aftermath, however, I made certain promises to myself, and that is what is troubling me tonight.” Despite the fact that it was cheap and burning, Oswald took another drink of whiskey, for no reason other than to give himself a moment to think. 

Jim had an idea of where this was headed. All the flowery words, and the not-so-subtle though nameless mentions of Edward Nygma pretty much advertised it on a billboard. And every time he caught the oblique message that Oswald was throwing at him, he crammed it right back down in the dark box of his psyche. 

“Do you know what I’m trying to say, Jim?”

“No.”

“Must you be so difficult.” Oswald huffed and began to pace.

 

Jim watched him for a few moments, right leg dragging behind, cane thumping the carpet and hardwood with each step as he walked the span of the brownstone. 

“Sit down,” he said after a few moments of this.

Oswald refused to stop pacing; he didn’t answer verbally, just flashed the most pissy look he could muster as he continued walking. He could think better on his feet; he always had. On his feet gave him an urgency and clarity that thoughtfully pondered speeches did not.

When the pacing didn’t stop, Jim poured half a glass, swallowed it down at once, then shoved the chair back from the desk. He stalked along behind Oswald, and when he turned to continue the pace, Jim caught him by the shoulders and pushed him up against the wall. “I said… sit down.”

Oswald flushed again at the tight press of Jim’s body against his own, and his gloved hands came up. He meant to shove Jim away, to make a protestation that Jim had no business ordering him around or telling him what to do, but instead, his fingers fisted in Jim’s jacket and refused to let go. They were nose to nose, and Oswald’s tongue slipped out to wet suddenly dry lips. 

He didn’t get the chance; Jim’s mouth crashed down against Oswald’s, pressing him tightly against the wall. The heat from Oswald’s face warmed Jim’s skin, and he leaned further into Oswald as their mouths pressed together. His tongue licked curiously at Oswald’s mouth, tasting his whiskey on the other man’s breath. 

Oswald’s fists clung to Jim, returning the kiss with nearly silent whimpers. He felt like he was going to boil alive, and when Jim’s tongue teased him, he let go in shock. His hands fell from Jim’s shoulders entirely, letting his weight fall against the wall and be held up by Jim’s body. It was a hard rock pressed against him, chest to hip, and Jim’s leg was moving to slide between Oswald’s. At the touch of clothed thigh against clothed thigh, Oswald all but jumped out of his skin as Jim started to move against him. 

Feeling Oswald's trembling, Jim leaned in just a little more. They were touching now from lips to knees, and Jim gently nudged Oswald's head to the side so that he could nuzzle against the flushed cheek. It was heat and salt under his mouth, and his tongue trailed a broken line into the other man's collar, slightly damp with sweat and still smelling like cologne. 

“J-ji-Jim, please.” Innocent enough beginning as his mouth was freed, but whatever he'd meant to say was forgotten when Jim's tongue started to glide down his neck. He flushed a deeper red when he realized that Jim's hair was right by his chin and Oswald brought an unsteady hand up to touch. 

Warm, Jim's entire body seemed to give off body heat like a radiator. Not brittle or stiff or sticky, it was soft to the touch but still firmly held in place by whatever product Jim had used after his shower. The ends flared over his fingers with the little movements of Jim's head. 

“You going shy on me?” Jim said into Oswald's skin as he moved to kiss him.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” Oswald said, breathing shallowly and letting his hands drop to his side. “What are you doing?” was spoken into Jim's mouth, and the words were swallowed in a swirl of Jim's tongue. 

At some point, he wasn't too clear on when (that was a lie he told himself; he knew it before the first kisses, and they were both lost) Jim realized that Oswald was both hungry for and utterly unprepared for what he'd come for. The shape of his words lingered on Jim's tongue and they burned on the way down. 

Mindful of the collapse at the dinner, Jim swept Oswald into his arms for the few steps to the couch, and only broke the kiss when he sat Oswald down. 

The sensation of being lifted was unexpected, and Oswald's arms clamped around Jim's neck. That only served to pull their mouths closer, and Oswald's nose was filled with Jim's aftershave, the copper-tinged heat of his body, and the whiskey that barely lingered. 

Then, coolness. Jim's body had pulled back as he settled down beside Oswald, and Oswald was desperate for his return. His hands grabbed whatever they could reach; Jim's tie was in his fist and the other was tangled in the shirt’s sleeve. 

“Come here.” He untangled Oswald's fingers from his shirt and guided them into his hair, at the back of his head. Oswald needed no further prompting, using his grip on Jim to haul him back into kisses. 

They were frantic and wet, the rough scrape of teeth over tongue, messy in the inexperience but thoroughly heated and desired. 

Jim broke off, panting softly and focusing on Oswald's face. His thumb rubbed over Oswald's lower lip, then teased at his tongue. His grip on Oswald's chin was firm, “Like this,” he whispered, kissing him slowly, deeply. 

Oswald responded eagerly, lids fluttering closed when he could no longer bear watching Jim so closely. He mirrored the tentative thrust of Jim's tongue and nearly groaned when Jim yielded and let him in. His hands were both fastened in Jim's hair, holding him close and realizing that the flush of his own skin was matched by Jim's. 

Slowly Jim taught, and Oswald devoured everything greedily. Hard, hungry kisses gave way to soft, needy brushes of lips and tongue. Oswald could feel his entire body warming slowly, the lazy nips and licks making him feel like he was floating. 

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asked as Jim's forehead pressed against his own. They were both panting for breath, and heat bloomed between them. 

“You know why.”

“If that was all--” Oswald stopped.

If Edward had not wanted him, why would Jim? Except out of pity, and he flushed, horrified and humiliated, as he tried to extricate himself. 

Jim grabbed his wrist and pulled. He didn't stop until Oswald was back on the couch and his fingers were pressed against the hardness straining behind Jim's zipper. “That's why.”

It was almost impossible for Oswald to believe what Jim was saying. He was hot to the touch, even through the layers of clothing. Without quite realizing, his fingers explored, palm shaping itself to the thick girth of Jim’s cock. He snatched his hand back when Jim let out a soft moan, and was shocked when Jim reached out and brought the curious hand back. “Just like this,” he said, showing Oswald how to touch, where to press gently, where to rub. 

Emboldened by Jim's reactions, Oswald leaned in to kiss again. His hand remained where Jim had put it and Oswald gasped into the kiss when he felt the strong twitch of the erection in his hand. _You… you really want me_ he thought to say, but Jim's gentle touch on his face stopped his words flat. “J--Jim?” 

Jim smiled. It was small. Soft. He pulled and tugged at the knot of Oswald's cravat, and it finally came undone. Once his collar was open, Jim trailed kisses down the newly-revealed flesh. 

The words died before they were even fully formed. He could feel himself relaxing even as he said it, feeling Jim move in closer as he relaxed. Jim’s fingers were patiently opening the layers of clothing; suit coat went open first, thrown wide and down over his shoulders. The temperature difference was astounding, because he could feel the heat radiating from Jim’s body pressing into his own.

Jim stopped at the jacket, giving Oswald a chance to get used to the feeling. He kept his kisses concentrated on the column of Oswald’s neck, down the V of his open collar, and kept his touches gentle and unrushed. So many layers to get through, each piece of armor shed to reveal the real Oswald. 

Oswald’s hands shed his jacket easily, letting it bunch up behind him as he freed his arms from the sleeves. The room air felt chilled through the shirt, but it was only the absence of Jim’s skin close to his that made it feel that way. He drew closer to Jim, and Jim’s arms wrapped around him, moving the jacket entirely and tossing it on the chair beside the couch. The vest was next, and Jim carefully popped each button on the placket before shoving it off Oswald’s shoulders too. 

Oswald reached out and stopped him, dropping the vest beside the jacket. He was suddenly reticent, and reached instead to tug urgently at Jim’s jacket, almost crumpling the lapels in his fist. Jim got the message quickly and straightened his back enough to let the garment fall to the floor. Then he lowered himself back over Oswald, knee planted on the couch to keep him balanced as he looked down, waiting. 

Jim’s eyes were startling in their intensity, framed by generous lashes that barely brushed his cheek when he blinked. Oswald searched and studied them for a long moment, then gave a barely perceptible nod; yes, please, don’t stop now. 

With the permission to continue, Jim took Oswald’s wrist in his hand. His fingers opened the cufflink, put it carefully by the lamp, loosened the button at the sleeve. At the pulse point, Jim kissed the lightly chilled skin, then proceeded to the same with the other wrist. Once the sleeves were loosened, the shirt buttons were next, and suddenly the only thing remaining was Oswald’s white undershirt, nearly as pale as his skin. 

Jim allowed Oswald to pull his shirt off, hands that grew steadier with every motion and tug and yank. He hissed softly when cool palms pressed against his chest, because even through the undershirt he could feel how cold they were.

Taking both of Oswald’s hands in his own, Jim slid them underneath the shirt, and pulled it up and over his head. He let Oswald’s fingers guide the push, felt them slide down his arms and over his chest to rest over his sternum. “You’re so warm,” Oswald whispered wonderingly. 

Jim gave a throaty laugh at the amazement in Oswald's voice. Hiding his smile in the crook of Oswald's neck, he trailed soft nibbles around the collarbone, following the ancient lines of a king’s torc. Though Oswald bore it well, he was bearing the weight of the underworld. Jim had to shove those thoughts away, and instead centered them on the here and now. 

Which was a good thing, because Oswald was straining to pull the last of his layers off. Jim helped, and for a moment he studied Oswald carefully. His thumbs ran over barely-there scars from long ago, discovering the story they told. 

He had his own scars; what soldier didn't? But Oswald did not seem to care in the slightest. He was looking at Jim's face, searching for… disgust? Pity? Shrinking away in horror? Jim did nothing, and let him look for as long as he needed. 

Oswald's mouth opened to speak, but Jim stole his voice with another kiss. Oswald had learned well, yielding just enough to get close before sinking his hands in Jim’s hair and pulled. A soft groan came from Jim’s throat at Oswald’s forwardness, and that groan only encouraged him. A tongue slipped into Jim’s mouth, and there was a soft tremor that went through both of them. 

A whisper of breath caressed Oswald’s lips and cheek when Jim moved to kiss his ear. “Touch me, Oswald.” Though it was meant as a demand, it came out dirty, rubbed raw.

Oswald rested his hands on Jim’s chest. His nails scraped lightly over Jim’s skin when he clenched his hands into fists. “I need to--you should know that--” The words didn’t come easily, his brain overheated, and he lightly thumped his clenched fists against Jim’s chest. “ I don’t--haven’t. Ever.”

Jim took Oswald’s hand and brought it to press hard against his zipper, letting the hardness speak volumes. “I don’t care,” he said, meaning it just as much as he meant the unspoken, _it doesn't matter._

Oswald couldn’t speak any longer and chose to let his actions speak for him. Jittery-numb fingertips pulled at the button and zipper of Jim’s trousers, and with a shimmy of hips, they were down around Jim’s ankles. 

There was another brief moment of hesitance, and Jim pressed another kiss to Oswald’s lips. He was becoming more and more desperate for Oswald's mouth, wanting to feel it everywhere. But Jim restrained himself, standing up straight. “Come on,” Jim said, holding his hand out. 

Oswald looked around oddly, trying to figure out what was going on. “Did I--” _do something wrong?_ hovered on his lips, but he could not give voice to it. “Jim, please, I'm--” 

“Not doing this on the couch,” Jim filled in. “Bed. Now.”

Never had the thought of Jim's bed crossed his mind, but he shot to his feet. He was about to start castigating himself when he realized that Jim was naked, save for his socks and shoes. The image was ludicrous and Oswald clapped a hand over his mouth to keep the giggle in. 

Jim heard it anyway and gave a exasperated growl. 

It broke the brief moment of tension and Oswald pulled himself to his feet. Jim was standing in his personal space and they were skin to skin and breathing the same breaths. “Thank you,” Oswald said softly, and gripped Jim's bicep to steady himself. 

When Oswald turned around, Jim hauled him back by the waist. The hard line of his cock rubbed against the fine wool of Oswald's trousers, his bare chest pressing hotly against Oswald's cooler skin. He dipped his head, nipping lightly at an earlobe and swirling his tongue around it. “I know why you came here tonight, Oswald. Do you?”

“I--Yes.” Oswald said, trembling. “Yes.”

Jim's hands rested on Oswald's hips, his fingers hovering over his waistband. “Then I think it's time you got rid of these.”

Oswald swallowed hard, feeling Jim's hand not-quite-touching. Yes, he had come to Jim for exactly this, but the abstract becoming real was more than he'd expected. There were so many firsts tonight, but taking this final step was a few steps beyond the rest. 

He didn't want to hesitate, and in his mind he could see himself easily. His fingers unbuckled his belt, then undid the button and eased his zipper down. His pants fell as his heartbeat quickened, and Jim's hands met Oswald's and helped guide the underwear down along with the pants. 

A kiss startled him out of his panicked imagination. Jim's mouth was soft and wet and warm, and the swirl of tongues was a very welcome distraction. 

Jim waited until the kiss had Oswald's full attention. Only then did he move, hands ever so gently unzipping and pushing downward. Oswald felt the cool air, and didn't realize until he was naked what Jim had done. 

Immediately he covered his groin and dipped his head, blush staining his skin. 

Jim reached out and carefully caught both of Oswald's wrists. He kissed each one, then nuzzled up his arm to his ear and cheek. He sucked tiny kisses along the earlobe, then across the cheek to warm lips once more. 

Oswald tried to shy away, tried to make himself small, less of a target. No one had seen him this vulnerable except his mother, and he suddenly wanted to bolt, grab any clothes he could on the way out, and flee. 

But Jim held him steady, firmly but not roughly. The insistent press of Jim's cock against his thigh was incontrovertible proof that his panic was unfounded, and he could still taste Jim's kiss on his lips. In Jim's arms, Oswald let himself relax. 

The rigidity flowed out, and Jim felt Oswald softening again in his arms. He rewarded that trust with another kiss, which Oswald returned almost desperately. He stepped back carefully, trying to guide their steps out of the tangle of clothes on the floor. 

Oswald realized as they maneuvered that his shoes were going to be a problem, but he was fairly confident now that Jim wouldn't ridicule him. He kicked off the one shoe, and had to bend over for the other. 

Jim ran his hand over Oswald's bare ass, then hooked his hip to haul him back. Jim gripped him tightly and licked down Oswald's spine, just before he let him go. “Bed,” was all he could choke out. 

The feel of Jim's hands grasping and moving his body made Oswald shudder. He shivered as the licked trail cooled on his skin, and he braced against Jim as he stepped out of the tangled mess of discarded clothes. Jim had followed suit, shoes and socks gone somewhere else. 

Jim's bed was as rumpled and spartan as the rest of the rental, but as Oswald climbed in, he recognized the smell of Jim's aftershave, a tickle of soap, and something that was not a recognized scent other than Jim. He got on his knees, wincing slightly. 

Jim got in right behind him, and tugged until Oswald was lying on his back. Only then did Jim straddle him, knees on either side of Oswald's. He was draped over him, and Jim took his time with leisurely kisses. He began with Oswald's mouth, but soon moved to his neck. Jim's hand rested loosely around Oswald's cock, stroking with a featherlight touch. 

Oswald was panting softly, a rush of strangled “uh!” noises spilling out. One hand clutched tightly to the bedsheets; the other sunk in Jim's hair. The pulls and tugs were random, until Jim's tongue lapped at a pebbled nipple. Oswald tried to push him to the other side, but Jim refused to move until he was ready. 

Both nipples were treated to lazy licks, sucks, and the barest scrape of teeth, and Oswald was squirming. His legs rubbed together, and his back arched as Jim's tongue dipped briefly in his navel. 

Jim pulled up to his knees and reached out to his bedside table. Bracing on the corner, he reached out and caught both their erections in his hand and stroked them together. His other hand felt blindly in the drawer until finding his bottle of lubricant and the box of condoms. 

It felt like the air had gone out of Oswald's chest. He couldn't breathe for feeling the slick slide of skin against skin. His hand had fallen from Jim's hair, and he gingerly touched Jim's fingers, rubbing over his knuckles. 

Jim let go, wrapping Oswald's fingers around them both. He leaned forward for a lingering lick down the center of Oswald's chest then reluctantly removed himself from Oswald's grip. 

Moving carefully but deliberately, Jim pushed Oswald's legs apart. The right leg went over his shoulder and he kissed Oswald's knee, then his stomach. His tongue licked below the navel, then along the hip bone. 

Oswald was still squirming in jittery anticipation. His leg over Jim's shoulder arched his back the slightest bit, and he was doing his best to stay relaxed. The feel of cold and wet made him jump, and he could not stop himself tensing up when Jim’s slickened fingers touched him. 

Jim felt the tension, and slowly let Oswald's leg slide down. He slid down as well, resting his head against Oswald's thigh. Exhaling softly, he sent breaths dancing over his erect cock and grinning when it twitched. Licking his lips, Jim opened his mouth and drew the head of Oswald's cock between his lips. 

An incoherent shout that might've been Jim's name tore out of Oswald. His hands were clutching the sheets, and his hips were rocking helplessly. He was too shaken by Jim's tongue curling around the shaft to realize Jim's finger had slipped in. 

His instinct was to push down, which helped Jim go deeper, and the upswing pushed his cock to the back of Jim's throat. 

Jim's hand came up, holding the eager movement still. Oswald was already so close to the edge that Jim could taste it and Jim was nowhere near done. Instead he paid attention to Oswald's thighs, kissing the back of his knees and what he could reach of his calves. 

More incoherent, needy noises spilled out of Oswald's lips. The unexpected jolt of realizing that Jim’s fingers were inside him had him closing his eyes so that he saw stars. There had been discomfort, because he could feel the lingering tingles. But it was a deep, pleasant burn that was left behind as one finger pulled out and for the first time, two pressed in. 

A warm palm stayed splayed across Oswald's stomach, holding him mostly still. Jim's mouth was back on Oswald's knees, his tongue slowly lapping and teasing as he teased the crook mercilessly. He was going almost liquid, warm and pliant for anything Jim wanted to do. 

Jim had been waiting for Oswald to relax entirely. His fingers withdrew quickly, and Oswald whined softly at the loss. He ripped the condom open with his teeth, and rolled the rubber sheath over his cock. He couldn’t help the groan that wrung out of him, and once the condom was secure, he moved to position himself between Oswald’s legs. Once he was ready, Jim looked down at Oswald’s flushed face, heat dipping down into his chest and even his upper arms. 

In hopes of distracting him, Jim drew Oswald’s lower lip between his teeth, tongue slipping in after the surprised pant that gave him entrance. One hand steadied his cock, resting the slick head against Oswald’s stretched opening, and the other brought Oswald’s hand back to his hair.

Jim’s cock pressed in quickly, and he swallowed the pained cry of his name. He saw stars as Oswald’s fist tightened in his hair, and he stilled to let Oswald draw breath. He could feel the throbbing around his cock, and though he wanted to move, Jim made himself stay still until Oswald relaxed once more.

The pain had been intense, though momentary, and it was already fading and giving way to other, brand new sensations. He felt stretched, completely filled, and he gave a small wiggle of his hips to get comfortable. 

At the wiggle, Jim’s cock slid a little deeper, and Oswald’s eyes widened. He undulated again, and Jim sucked in a breath between his teeth. His hand tightened it’s grip on Oswald’s fingers, and that was all the warning he gave before moving again. He leaned further over, pushing in slow and deep until he was completely sheathed. 

Oswald was breathing heavy, and his fingers ached with how tightly they were clasped around Jim’s. That was the only sign of trepidation as he met Jim’s eyes, and nodded. Jim released a shuddering breath, and started moving. 

Clumsily at first, Oswald tried matching his movements to Jim’s, but it wasn’t until Jim’s hand pulled Oswald close and guided his hips that they fell into rhythm. Jim’s hair was flat and sweaty, and he dripped sweat onto Oswald’s forehead with every thrust. Oswald’s hair was plastered to his face, and his mouth was open as he moaned Jim’s name over and over again. 

Briefly, Jim checked to make certain Oswald was feeling no pain. He found Oswald’s cock hard and straining, slick and red and begging for touch. Jim obliged, wrapping his hand firmly around the shaft and stroking, his thumb rubbing over the head. He moved achingly slow, trying to draw out the pleasure for Oswald’s sake. 

That ended when Oswald wrapped his left leg over Jim’s hip and pulled him in. He felt the angle of his stroke change, and Oswald barely muffled his scream by biting Jim’s bicep. Over and over again, Jim pounded the same spot, feeling the throb in his arm from Oswald’s teeth in rhythm with his fucking. His hand moved faster on Oswald’s cock, using the same rough strokes that he used himself. 

Oswald’s orgasm was a complete surprise to him, and it nearly broke his back. He arched *hard* into Jim’s rough hands, feeling every muscle in his body contract almost at once. Jim’s cock seemed to grow huge as he tightened around it, feeling his heartbeat in every spurt. Then just as quickly as it had hit him, Oswald went limp, every muscle loosening as his heartbeat settled back to normal. 

Jim’s neck corded as he reared back. The hard squeeze of Oswald’s body around his cock felt for an instant like he was trapped. The slick heat clutching him tightly rippled with orgasm, and Jim was coming almost blindly. He felt Oswald’s grip loosen on his hand, and only then did he try and move. He pulled out easily, holding onto the condom until he was free and then peeling it off. It hit the trash can with a wet splat, and he collapsed beside Oswald.

Looking down, Jim expected to have to fend off a flood of words, but instead found a blissful smile and half-closed eyes. It was nearing midnight and Jim was exhausted. He rolled onto his side, felt Oswald tuck in around his back, and closed his eyes. His body was wiped out, but his mind was busy. Still, he managed to fall asleep to the sound of Oswald’s rhythmic breathing.

\---

The shrill of Jim’s cell woke him a few hours later. He squinted at the time before answering; 5:15. “Gordon.”

“Sorry to wake you up, sunshine, but we got a case. Dead body, Tribeca building, third floor. Roll out, Jimbo, meet me there.”

“Coffee,” is all he grunted before hanging up the phone. He scrubbed his hands over his face, and realized as he sat up that Oswald’s arm was around his waist. “Hey. Oswald,” Jim said, shaking him gently. “I gotta go to work; Bullock called.”

Oswald pried one eye open, and glared at the clock by the bed. “I only recognize one 5:00 per day, and this is not it.”

Jim actually smiled at that. “Did you just quote Charles Emerson Winchester at me?” Because that caught his attention; he'd watch M*A*S*H whenever he could. Surprised as he was that he and Oswald had something in common, he was _not_ surprised at the character. 

“Of course that’s the one reference you would understand,” Oswald groused, looking blearily up at Jim. 

God help him, he found this Oswald easier to deal with. “Yeah, well, dead bodies don’t wait for office hours.”

“James, do not speak to me of dead bodies before the sun has even risen,” came the reply. “Please tell me this ungodly wakeup call comes with some very strong coffee?”

“I’ll start the coffeemaker before I go. If you want breakfast, I think there’s maybe an apple in the fridge.” That would be about the only thing, unless Oswald was interested in four day old Chinese take-out noodles. No real breakfast food in the cabinets, but there was bread and butter for toast, if he were so inclined.

Oswald simply responded by putting his head under the pillow. “Good bye, Jim,” was muffled from under the pillowcase.

Jim jumped into the shower, not bothering to shave. He washed and dried in a matter of minutes, dipped his fingers into his hair cream and rubbed it in, just enough to make himself look presentable. Clean clothes, wallet, badge, gun, and shoes he carried out into the living room. Once he was dressed, he looked around at the mess. It’d have to wait until later. 

Picking up the phone notepad, Jim wrote, _Picking up Chinese for dinner unless I hear otherwise. J_ Then, as soon as he finished, he tore it off the notepad, crumpled it up, and shoved it in his pocket. 

On his way out the door, Jim hit the coffeepot button, setting it gurgling and chugging as it set about brewing its black ambrosia.

\---

The coffeepot dinged a half hour later, and the tempting aroma teased Oswald. “Jim!” And then he pulled his head out from under the pillow. He’d meant to cajole a cup of coffee out of the impossible man, but he vaguely remembered Jim saying he’d gotten a call from Bullock and had to go to work. 

The sight of 5:45 on the alarm clock didn’t make him feel any better, and he swung his legs over the bed. 

His lagging mental processes caught up with him halfway to the bathroom.

Jim Gordon had, with very little exaggeration, fucked him through the mattress. He’d slept, quietly and contentedly, beside Jim Gordon until the Godforsaken wake-up call, and Jim had showered and left Oswald in his house. Having no other choice, Oswald showered in Jim’s bathroom, and left the bathroom smelling like Jim’s soap. A fact that both pleased and irritated him endlessly.

His clothes were nowhere to be found in the bedroom, and Oswald realized they were probably still in a pile by the couch where they’d fallen. Hesitant to walk around naked, Oswald wrapped himself in the sheet from Jim’s bed and headed out into the living room. 

Two coffee cups were sitting out in front of the coffee machine, and Oswald made a beeline for it. The first cup was scalding hot and strong as paving tar, and he gulped it greedily. A second cup made being awake bearable, and a third cup got him back to normal. He nursed the fourth cup as he looked around the dingy little rental, wondering how in the hell Jim was ever happy here. 

His clothes and Jim’s were in piles and tangles over the furniture, and Oswald sighed unhappily. He extricated his phone from his coat pocket, scanning the missed calls. There were three, all from Victor, and Oswald didn’t bother listening to the voicemails. He just dialed Victor back, collapsing onto Jim’s sofa. 

“Hello! You’re up early, boss,” was Victor’s first words.

“Get me a car and bring me clean clothes,” he ordered.

“Sure thing.” A pause. “Where to?”

“Where do you think?” 

“You’re still at Gordon’s place?” The question was plain in Victor’s tone; _why?_

“Yes, yes, I am still at Jim Gordon’s, and I need. Clean. Clothes,” Oswald enunciated.

“You need a shovel?” Victor assumed they were burying someone.

No, what was really needed was a backhoe and a hazmat team to make the place habitable. “Just the clothes, Victor. Now, please?”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” 

Victor hung up, and Oswald sighed deeply. At least being the boss had the perk of not having to explain yourself. He gathered up the dirty tuxedo from the night before, rolled it up in the bottom half of the bedsheet, and sat waiting for Victor to arrive.

\---

“Jim! Buddy, over here!” Harvey held a tall coffee over his head in invitation. “Didn’t think you were gonna make it. By the way, _thank you._ The commissioner called me last night, very grateful to see Jim Gordon there as the representative of the Gotham City Police Department, blah blah blah.” He held the styrofoam coffee cup out as Jim got closer.

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Jim took the cup and literally poured half of it straight down his throat. Maybe it had been hot at one time, but now it was lukewarm and weak. At least it was black and caffeinated. “What do we got?” 

Bullock watched as Jim practically deep-throated the morning coffee, and his eyebrows elevated further when he got a good look at his partner. No shave, half-ass hair, chugging coffee like water… “Holy shit, you got laid last night.”

Jim just let that one slide right on by. “Dead body, you said?”

“Oh no. You got lucky at the dinner, you son of a--” Harvey rubbed his hands together. “Who was it?”

“Third floor?” Jim opened the door to the stairway, knowing Harvey wouldn’t follow. 

“Jim!” Harvey sighed as the door thudded behind his partner, and he stabbed the elevator button angrily. He was gonna find out just what his partner had been up to if it killed him. And if Gordon kept taking the stairs, it was going to.

The elevator dinged, and Harvey hurried down to the third floor office, where cops were standing outside the door to keep unauthorized people out. “He in there already?”

“Detective Gordon? Yes, sir.” 

“Great, thanks.” Harvey stepped into the room, still bustling with activity. Jim was kneeling by the corpse, and his empty coffee cup was in the trash. “Jim!”

Jim held up a wallet. “Name’s Seymour Sykes.”

Harvey laughed. “Oh, yeah that’s a fake name. This guy’s Smiley John. He’s a low-level wetwork for hire guy. Usually small contracts, doesn't want to get noticed by guys like Penguin.” 

Jim pointed at the window. “Glass shards on the inside, looks like the bullet came from outside.”

“Yeah, probably. So, tell me about the girl,” Harvey prodded. “You haven’t shaved, you drank your coffee like you didn’t get much sleep, and your hair looks like somebody’s fingers been running through it.”

“Yeah. Mine.” Jim grimaced. “You woke me up at five in the morning, Harv. I showered, I skipped a shave, and I didn’t pretty my hair up for the corpse.” 

“Jim, Jim! I know you, brother, and you got some.” Harvey held his hands out flat. “You’re not cranky like usual.”

“Smiley John. Real name?” Jim stood up. 

“No idea. We’ll look him up at the station.” Harvey smiled. “You’re not even gonna tell me yes or no, are you?” 

“No.” Jim straightened from his crouch. His lower back gave a twist, but he didn’t give an outward sign. He grabbed the nearest uniform. “Make sure you get his prints. Good photo for ID. We’ll run the prints when we get back, maybe find out who he is.” He looked up at his partner. “Harv, you know enough about this guy to make a list of known acquaintances?”

“I can make a list, sure, but I can tell you where to start.”

Jim scoffed. “We’re not going to Penguin. Not until we’ve given it a shot first.”

“I was thinking Zsasz, actually,” Bullock pointed out. “One bullet, distant from the kill, through the glass? If he didn’t do it, then he knows who’s got the juice.” 

“And Zsasz means Penguin,” Jim pointed out, and in that moment, his sole thought was to keep Oswald Cobblepot and Harvey Bullock on completely different ends of the planet. 

“Fine, but if we do all this legwork and it ends up Victor Zsasz anyway, I’m gonna beat you,” Harvey threatened. 

“Fine.” 

“All right, let’s get back to the station. Get those prints running, at least.” Harvey sighed. “And then you tell me all about your date last night.”

“No.” Jim headed back to the stairwell. “See you downstairs, Harv.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Bullock shouted after the slam of the door.

\---

Oswald paced the entirety of the Iceberg Lounge. Victor sat to the side watching him.

“Just shut up, would you?” Oswald said, twisting around abruptly to snap at the iceberg of the lounge.

Victor said nothing; he was used to these one-sided conversations with good ole Ed.

“He really isn't like that, you know. He's nothing like you.” Oswald resumed pacing after delivering that insult. “For your information, he was a perfect gentleman.”

More information than Zsasz wanted, so he started running inventory in his head. He kept an ear open just in case his input was required. It seldom was. 

“Fine, but I'll have you know I don't regret it at all!” Oswald turned his back on the ice block so that Ed couldn't see the doubts. “It is possible to have a physical relationship with no emotional involvement at all.”

No emotional involvement. Oswald stopped to consider that. Jim had been gruff, certainly, and he'd professed to know nothing about Oswald's intentions. Yet he'd been more than adequately prepared, nor had it been his first time. 

Was Jim laughing at his inexperience? Was he even now joking with that odious Harvey Bullock about Oswald's performance? 

No. Oswald shook his head, clearing those horrible thoughts from his brain. Jim had been kind, been gentle, even enthusiastic. 

_But he's never really going to love you, Oswald,_ whispered Ed's voice in his head. _You going to put him on ice too, or just kill him?_

“I'm not killing anyone yet!” Oswald shouted angrily. 

Victor looked up at that. “Does that mean you're done with me, Boss?” 

“Yes! No!” Oswald took a deep breath. “Did you take care of the Smiley John problem?” 

“Last night.” Zsasz rolled up his sleeve to show his freshly carved tally mark. “One in the head.”

“Thank you. Yes, you can go.”

Victor’s exit left him alone with still-frozen Ed. _About time we're alone._

Technically, they were always alone, and Oswald just sighed. It was easier to ignore Ed’s voice in his head when he thought about other things, but unfortunately, the only thing on his mind was James Gordon. And Ed was taking full advantage of that. 

_You do realize, don’t you, Oswald, that he’s only doing this with you so that he can find out what you’re up to? Figure out how to turn whatever devious little scheme you come up with against you and come out on top._

Oswald closed his eyes and blew out a short, frustrated breath. “For your information, he didn’t even ask.” Come to think of it, Jim had been characteristically under-verbal. 

_Of course not. He’s trying to woo you, win you over so you won’t suspect him. Like you didn’t suspect me until I rubbed it in your face._

Ed had a point, and Oswald shoved it out of his head. Jim had been nothing but a friend to him, and it had been Oswald’s own idea to attempt to pursue a physical course of action.

 _Because that worked out so well the last time,_ Ed pointed out. 

“It’s completely different!” Oswald shouted. Because he certainly wasn’t in love with Jim Gordon, nor was Jim in any stretch in love with Oswald. However, two individuals could certainly manage a physical relationship without offering further emotional complications, and that’s precisely where Oswald intended to keep Jim. Out of emotional complication. 

_Give it up, Oswald. You’re unable to keep your emotions out of anything that you do. It’s your failing. Your downfall. Your weak spot,_ Ed emphasized. _Let it happen a few more times, and you’ll be swooning at Gordon’s feet, swearing your everlasting love._

“And why not? Jim’s been more faithful and loyal to me than you ever were!” Oswald shouted angrily at the frozen shape. 

Ed’s shocked gasp was drowned out by his laughter. _I’m sure you believe that now, but you know, because I know, that’s not true. That’s your pain, that’s your anger at me speaking out. No one was more loyal to you than I was, until you murdered the love of my life. Guess you’re lucky that Jim doesn’t have anyone you have to compete with._

“You weren’t in love with her, you were in love with the idea of her,” Oswald pointed out. “You’re compulsive, Ed, and you have to finish what you started. You started it with Kristen Kringle, and you had to finish it with Isabella.”

That earned him no reply, because it was well-plowed ground. Instead, Oswald was left quietly alone with his thoughts, which might have been worse. 

Jim had been very at-ease with… well, everything. He hadn’t even seemed to care (notice) that Oswald was inexperienced. 

And the only way he could have not noticed was if he hadn’t been paying attention. If he wasn’t actually involved in what he was doing. That he didn’t give a damn, he was just going through the motions. 

And like Edward had said, Jim could have been making jokes about him with Harvey. With the entire GCPD. Jokes about how stupid Oswald had been, how Jim had been the one to, how was the vulgar thing? Busted Penguin’s cherry? He could even imagine Harvey laughing at every word out of Jim’s mouth. Bullock had never cared for him anyway. 

Jim, on the other hand? Jim had cared for him. Had _pretended_ to care, anyway. Had _pretended_ to be his friend, and had then turned around, seduced Oswald at the dinner, and had made half-hearted love to him in an effort to woo Oswald’s heart to overpower his brain. 

No, that wasn’t going to happen again. Not even close. Oswald steeled himself as he picked up the phone, getting ready to deal with the day’s problems so that he could have his night free. He was going to have to kill someone.

\---

Jim finally left the station about six that evening. The leads had almost all stalled out; the prints matched up with a felon by the name of John Rackmore, who’d done a dime for assault with a deadly. Liked to do some cutting, last known address was a by-the-week flophouse that he hadn’t been at in two weeks. Everything was a dead end, and he sighed. He’d promised Harvey that if nothing turned up overnight, then they’d talk to Penguin and Zsasz first thing in the morning.

There was a bag of Chinese takeout on the car seat beside him, already turning transparent with steam and grease. He’d bought fried rice and fresh noodles, chicken chow mein, beef and broccoli, shrimp lo mein, a quart of wonton soup, and fortune cookies. He tried stifling a yawn before he got out of the car, didn’t succeed, and let out a jaw-cracker. The car door squeaked as he slammed it closed, and he juggled bag and keys until he got the front door open.

First thing he noticed? No Oswald. He kicked the front door closed, and swung the bag of food up on the kitchen counter. The coffee maker had been emptied, the room somewhat tidied. Jim just sighed. 

Oswald’s clothes were gone, Jim’s were left in a neatened stack, and his bedsheet was folded on the couch like a pocket square. It was tempting to crash on the couch--too damn tempting, in fact. 

Only now that Oswald wasn’t here did Jim admit to himself that he’d expected him. One of the coffee cups was still in front of the coffee maker, but the other was in the plastic drainer by the sink. And the glass coffee pot itself had been washed and replaced on the machine. 

All that added up to the idea that Oswald had woke up, had coffee, and gotten the fuck out of dodge. But not before cleaning up everything he’d touched. Erased all evidence of his presence.

Jim shrugged. He had more to deal with than Oswald’s issues. Even if he wouldn't admit it to himself, he'd hoped to have Oswald in his bed again, if nothing else. Scrubbing his arm over his face, he stared at the take-out bag, decided eating required more energy than he had at the moment, and opted for a cold shower instead. Hopefully that would wake him up enough to eat, and then he’d get back in bed and sleep for a week.

His tie had gotten loosened in the car, and he yanked it off now, dropping it on the side table on his way to the bathroom. He was only slightly more careful with his jacket and trousers, putting them to the side with Friday’s suit for dry cleaning. His shirt hit the dirty hamper, and he peeled off his socks and underwear.

Which just reminded him of the clothes piled in the living room. Heaving a deep sigh, Jim went _back_ to the living room and picked up his dirty clothes, and bumped the coffee table at the end of the couch.

Oswald’s cufflinks skittered across the polished surface, and Jim caught them before they hit the floor. He sighed, and carried them and the clothes into the bedroom. The dirty dinner jacket and trousers went into the dry clean pile, and Oswald’s cufflinks got tossed onto the glass plate that held Jim’s seldom-worn tie-tack, his watch, and some other various trinkets. He was halfway into the bathroom when he paused, backtracked to the dresser, and straightened the cufflinks so they were sitting together on the edge of the dish.

Then back to the bathroom, where he lathered up his face, took the razor into the shower, and turned it on full blast.

\---

Oswald was prepared to slam his fist against Jim’s door, but had the sense to try the knob first. The door was unlocked, and Oswald just walked in. And immediately heaved a deep sigh, because what kind of moron left their door unlocked?

He saw the clothes were gone, thank God, at least Jim had had the decency to tidy the place up that much. It was going to make it so much easier to kill him without reminders of what had happened. He slammed the front door angrily, and started shouting. “Oh, Ji-im,” he sang out.

Jim turned his shower off as soon as he heard the door slam, and Oswald’s voice underneath it. He got out, shampoo dripping, face half-shaved, and came around the corner. He found Oswald, pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table and muttering to himself. “What are you doing here, Oswald?”

The gun snapped up and pointed at him as Oswald stopped pacing. “Jim! There you are! You know, you really should lock your doors. In this neighborhood, anyone could just walk in.” 

“Yeah, I see that.” He just shook his head at the gun.

“Oh, sorry about that. I know it’s rude to point a gun at someone, but how else are you going to kill them?” Smug shrug that infuriated Jim. “See, I figured out what you were up to, Jim!”

“Really.” 

“Yes, really! You thought I wouldn’t notice you were manipulating me?” Oswald was shouting. “That you were using me, trying to confuse me, make me rethink all my plans for Gotham City? That you didn’t care about me in the _least!_ ” Oswald was not even paying attention to the horrified look on his face, nor the tone in his voice. 

But Jim noticed. He noticed that Oswald was getting more distraught and less angry, his pacing had stopped, and the gun was trembling. “Oswald--”

“No! You do not get to use that tone of voice with me, Jim! You do not get to sound all quiet and concerned and worried, because I know you’re not!” The last word came with a catch in Oswald’s voice, and Jim recognized the signs. “You’re not! So stop sounding like you care, it’s not going to work this time.”

So Jim just stood there, dripping on the carpet, and ran his fingers through his soapy hair to get the suds out of his eyes. “Is this going to take long? I was in the middle of something…”

His first thought was to be horrified. Here he was, pouring his heart out to Jim--couched in threats, of course, but it wasn’t any less real for all of that. It wasn’t until Jim mentioned it that Oswald noticed. Jim was standing in the middle of the room, stark naked and soaking wet. 

It was that moment of inattention that Jim made his move. He rushed forward, pushing Oswald up against the closed door. His shoulder pinned Oswald while his hands pulled the gun away and Jim tossed it to the side. “Now, you were saying something?”

For a brief moment, Oswald forgot practically everything he’d come to say. Except for, “Why are you wet and naked?” a question with an obvious enough answer.

“Because I was in the shower,” Jim answered sensibly. Whereas before he might have offered, this time he simply dragged Oswald behind him and shut the bedroom door. He shoved him into the bathroom, and followed him in, turning the shower back on and hauling Oswald under the spray. 

Oswald tried to protest, even tried to dig in his heels and refuse to move, but Jim was strong enough that it was easier just to go along. At first he thought the bedroom was the destination, but then the shock of water hitting him made him splutter. “James Gordon, what are you doing!?”

“Finishing my shower,” he answered, stepping under the spray alongside a fully-clothed Oswald. “Hand me the razor, will you?”

Oswald spluttered again, drenched to the core. His hair was a mess, his gun was who-knew-where, and his clothes were soaked and sticking to his skin. ...And Jim was stark naked, body glistening under the spray, and… “Razor?”

“Yes.” Jim reached around Oswald’s shoulder and picked it up to finish shaving. “Razor.” He finished in a few careful strokes, and reached out enough to toss the razor into the bathroom sink. Stepping forward pressed Oswald hard against the shower tile, and Jim let the shampoo rinse out while he stared.

Oswald’s breath caught in his throat as Jim pressed against him. Whatever he’d come to yell about was lost on his lips as Jim stared at him with piercing eyes that didn’t blink. Soon enough he started to squirm, and Oswald could feel--as well as see--Jim’s reaction to the squirming. 

“Be still,” Jim growled in Oswald’s ear, and spent no time playing. His hand went straight for Oswald’s zipper, and his hand brought out a quickly stiffening cock. Water from the shower made his grip slippery, and his fist stroked with hard, rapid pumps. 

Oswald's back was against the shower wall, hot and cold knobs digging into his back almost painfully, but in the moment he could not have cared less. His hands went to Jim's hair, dragging him in until they were nose to nose, tilting just enough to make contact with Jim's lips. 

The kiss was hard, almost angry, and slippery wet. Oswald's tongue stabbed into Jim's mouth, seeking and owning. Jim leaned in, deepening the kiss while his hand kept stroking. Oswald moaned softly, and Jim broke the kiss suddenly. He nuzzled an almost chaste kiss onto Oswald's half-parted lips, then slid to his knees. 

The shower beat down on Jim's back and Oswald's upturned face. Oswald's hands were still in his hair, and he dipped his head enough to drag his tongue over the head of Oswald's cock. 

Oswald cried out Jim’s name, his grip tightening. Soaked through, he was still somehow warm, shivering as Jim's tongue licked over him. He wanted something more, and dragged Jim’s head closer. “Please, more,” was all that he could get out. 

Jim didn't hesitate to follow directions, wetting his lips in the spray of the shower before taking Oswald's cock into his mouth. He didn't think Oswald would last very long, but he gave a hard suck before pulling back so that the head rested just on the tip of his tongue. His hands were guiding Oswald's hips, showing him how fast or slow to move. 

Oswald moved forward, pushing Jim back on his heels. His cock popped in and out of Jim's mouth, and Jim was making a delicious slurping noise with each stroke. He wasn't hesitant in the least, taking the full length of Oswald's shaft every time. 

It was Jim's eyes, though, looking up at him with a mouthful of cock that stunned Oswald into coming. He didn't even have the brains to articulate why the sight of Jim Gordon on his knees was exciting; everything about him _stuttered_ as he came. 

Jim closed his eyes when he felt the warning twitch of oncoming orgasm. He swallowed deeply, barely feeling Oswald's fingers falling out of his hair to caress his throat. When Oswald was drained, Jim braced him against the wall while Oswald felt behind himself and turned off the water. 

Slowly Jim stood up, and started to unbutton Oswald's coat. “Get out of those wet clothes, and get in bed,” he ordered gently. “Get warm and I'll get something to eat. You like shrimp?” 

Oswald was lost. “Shrimp? Uh, no, I don't particularly care for shrimp.”

“Great. More for me, and chicken for you.” Once Jim had Oswald's jacket off, he opened up the shower curtain and handed him a towel. “Everything off. I'll hang it up in here to dry.”

Oswald watched as Jim got out of the shower and tied another towel around his waist. “Jim?” 

“Yeah?” He was halfway out of the bathroom, but he turned his attention back to Oswald. 

“Nothing.” Oswald concentrated on removing his wet jacket and shoes, but when he looked back up, Jim was still there. “What?” 

Jim couldn't help the small smile that touched his lips. The defensive tone just squeezed his chest, which he knew well. You offered up what you had enough times, you got a little protective over it. Christ knew, Oswald needed protection. 

“Oswald.”

“Yes?” He was still glaring at Jim's private smile, irked that he wasn't in on the joke. 

“Ever had dinner in bed?” 

At Oswald’s confused look, Jim’s smile widened, even as every single alarm bell rang loudly in his head. 

Yeah. This was going to end well. 

The End


End file.
